Rabid Man Walking Designer Dogs?

What do you do for a living? That question is often asked of me. I've addressed it in this blog before and I'll likely revisit it frequently because I still don't have a dog damn answer.

In Cambridge-Narrows I like to say that I'm the personal gardener-slash-pool boy to an eccentric older woman. In Toronto, I am as undefined as a block of tofu. I take on the flavour of what's around me. Keep this comment in mind as you read on.

Wendy and I had friends over a few nights ago and the topic of my time in Toronto generated some discussion. In short, I hardly know what to do with myself in Toronto, so that's what garnered this suggestion....

"Why not become a dog walker?"

I'm still not sure if my friends were serious or not, but I think they were because they are dog owners/lovers. Also, one of them said they'd like to be a dog walker in their retirement. Perhaps I'm a prissy, but every time I see a dog owner putting their hand into a plastic bag, crouching down and picking up Kujo's steaming coils, I feel like throwing up. Serious, I could hurl like a summer Olympian.

This leads me to (yet another) one of my Olympic proportioned proclamations:

I will never, in this lifetime or during my time in Hell, pick up anything that comes out of a dog's doak.

By Hell, Ian, do you mean the real Hell or are you speaking of Toronto metaphorically?

I mean anywhere, anytime. Toronto or Minto, makes no difference. I like dogs but I draw the line at turd herding. I will never own a dog that isn't 'free range', so now imagine me walking eight dogs, owned by strangers, in the loathsome city, all of them penned up in their condos just waiting for a chance to evacuate their mile long bowels. It makes one wonder if Alpo is a contraction of All Poo.

To add insult to injury, most dogs in my colourful building, were I to walk them, are dressed better than me! The other day Wendy and I met Toby in our elevator. Toby is one of those little yappers that is so small you wonder how it could have room for a heart and lungs, yet still house a 5280 feet of intestine. Toby was wearing a sleeveless red vest (with logo!), likely filled with goose down, and cute orange booties. I could never get away with wearing red and orange together, but Toby pulled it off admirably.

There is a certain irony that we've bred dogs that can't seem to hack the winter. When I say "we've bred dogs" I don't mean personally, though a guy in Moncton tried to recently, or so the headlines said. Remember, these creatures are evolved from wolves, hyenas and baby-eating dingos. If we didn't feed them regularly with Alpo, they'd kill us in an instant and feed off our carcasses for weeks. Yet, yet(!) they can't go outside without designer coats! Come on, folks, this is getting absurd. They have fur, or they did until Joe Namath showed up at the Super Bowl in that coat.

If you're ever feeling down and need a chuckle, imagine me tethered to eight tiny Shelties, stopping only to pick up their glistening gut waste. Nothing, I repeat, nothing could be more absurd. That said, it could be a way to ingratiate myself with my new neighbour, the Canadian Tire guy. I'll bet he's got a dog that needs walking.......and a hands-free MotoMaster shit shovel.

Problem solved!